Was sent to me by ashwathy, an IAS aspirant when we were together at aetna Navalur...really loved this one...
Grandmother was pretending to be lost in prayer, but her prayer-beads
were spinning at top speed. That meant she was either excited or upset.
Mother put the receiver down. "Some American girl in his office, she's
coming to stay with us for a week." She sounded as if she had a deep
foreboding.
Father had no such doubt. He knew the worst was to come.
He had been matching horoscopes for a year, but my brother Vivek had
found a million excuses for not being able to visit India , call any of the
chosen Iyer girls, or in any other way advance father's cause.
Father always wore four parallel lines of sacred ash on his forehead.
Now there were eight, so deep were the furrows of worry on his forehead. I sat
in a corner, supposedly lost in a book, but furiously text-messaging my
brother with a vivid description of the scene before me.
A few days later I stood outside the airport with father. He tried
not to look directly at any American woman going past, and held up the card
reading "Barbara". Finally a large woman stepped out, waved wildly and
shouted "Hiiii! Mr. Aayyyezh, how ARE you?" Everyone turned and
looked at us. Father shrank visibly before my eyes. Barbara took three long
steps and covered father in a tight embrace. Father's jiggling out of it was
too funny to watch. I could hear him whispering "Shiva Shiva!". She
shouted "you must be Vijaantee?" "Yes, Vyjayanthi" I said with a smile. I
imagined little half-Indian children calling me "Vijaantee aunty!". Suddenly,
my colorless existence in Madurai had perked up. For at least the next
one week, life promised to be quite exciting.
Soon we were eating lunch at home. Barbara had changed into an even shorter
skirt. The low neckline of her blouse was just in line with father's eyes.
He was glaring at mother as if she had conjured up Barbara just to torture
him. Barbara was asking "You only have vegetarian food? Always??" as if
the idea was shocking to her. "You know what really goes well with Indian food,
especially chicken? Indian beer!" she said with a pleasant smile, seemingly
oblivious to the apoplexy of the gentleman in front of her, or the choking
sounds coming from mother. I had to quickly duck under the table to hide
my giggles.Everyone tried to get the facts without asking the one question on
all our minds: What was the exact nature of the relationship between Vivek
and Barbara?
She brought out a laptop computer. "I have some pictures of Vivek" she
said. All of us crowded around her. The first picture was quite innocuous.
Vivek was wearing shorts and standing alone on the beach. In the next
photo, he had Barbara draped all over him. She was wearing a skimpy bikini
and leaning across, with her hand lovingly circling his neck. Father got
up, and flicked the towel off his shoulder. It was a gesture we in the
family had learned to fear. He literally ran to the door and went out.
Barbara said "It must be hard for Mr. Aayyezh.
He must be missing his son." We didn't have the heart to tell her that if
said son had been within reach, father would have lovingly wrung his
neck.
My parents and grandmother apparently had reached an unspoken agreement.
They would deal with Vivek later. Right now Barbara was a foreigner, a
lone woman, and needed to be treated as an honored guest. It must be said
that Barbara didn't make that one bit easy. Soon mother wore a perpetual
frown.
Father looked as though he could use some of that famous Indian beer.
Vivek had said he would be in a conference in Guatemala all week, and would
be off both phone and email. But Barbara had long lovey-dovey
conversations with two other men, one man named Steve and another named Keith. The
rest of us strained to hear every interesting word. "I miss you!" she said
to both. She also kept talking with us about Vivek, and about the places
they'd visited together. She had pictures to prove it, too. It was all very
confusing.
This was the best play I'd watched in a long time. It was even better
than the day my cousin ran away with a Telugu Christian girl. My aunt had
come howling through the door, though I noticed that she made it to the
plushest sofa before falling in a faint. Father said that if it had been his
child, the door would have been forever shut in his face. Aunt promptly
revived and said "You'll know when it is your child!" How my aunt would
rejoice if she knew of Barbara!
On day five of her visit, the family awoke to the awful sound of
Barbara's retching. The bathroom door was shut, the water was running, but far
louder was the sound of Barbara crying and throwing up at the same time.
Mother and grandmother exchanged ominous glances. Barbara came out and her
face was red. "I don't know why", she said, "I feel queasy in the mornings
now." If she had seen as many Indian movies as I'd seen, she'd know why.
Mother was standing as if turned to stone. Was she supposed to react with
the compassion reserved for pregnant women? With the criticism reserved
for pregnant unmarried women? With the fear reserved for pregnant
unmarried foreign women who could embroil one's son in a paternity suit?
Mother, who navigated familiar flows of married life with the skill of a champion
oarsman, now seemed completely taken off her moorings.
She seemed to hope that if she didn't react it might all disappear
like a bad dream. I made a mental note to not leave home at all for the next
week.Whatever my parents would say to Vivek when they finally got a-hold
of him would be too interesting to miss. But they never got a chance. The
day Barbara was to leave, we got a terse email from Vivek. "Sorry, still
stuck in Guatemala . Just wanted to mention, another friend of mine, Sameera
Sheikh, needs a place to stay. She'll fly in from Hyderabad tomorrow
at 10am . Sorry for the trouble."
So there we were, father and I, with a board saying "Sameera". At
last a pretty young woman in salwar-khameez saw the board, gave the smallest
of smiles, and walked quietly towards us. When she did 'Namaste' to
father, I thought I saw his eyes mist up. She took my hand in the friendliest
way and said "Hello, Vyjayanthi, I've heard so much about you." I fell in
love with her. In the car father was unusually friendly. She and Vivek had been
in the same group of friends in Ohio University. She now worked as a
Child Psychologist.
She didn't seem to be too bad at family psychology either. She took
out a shawl for grandmother, a saree for mother and Hyderabadi bangles for
me." Just some small things. I have to meet a professor at Madurai University
and it's so nice of you to let me stay" she said. Everyone cheered
up. Even grandmother smiled. At lunch she said "This is so nice. When I make sambar,
it comes out like chole, and my chole tastes just like sambar".
Mother was smiling. "Oh just watch for 2 days, you'll pick it up." Grandmother
had never allowed a muslim to enter the kitchen.
But mother seemed to have taken charge, and decided she would bring
in who ever she felt was worthy. Sameera circumspectly stayed out of the
puja room, but on the third day, was stunned to see father inviting her in
and telling her which idols had come to him from his father. "God is one"
he said. Sameera nodded sagely.
By the fifth day, I could see the thought forming in the family's
collective brains. If this fellow had to choose his own bride, why
couldn't it be someone like Sameera? On the sixth day, when Vivek called from
the airport saying he had cut short his Guatemala trip and was on his way
home, all had a million things to discuss with him.
He arrived by taxi at a time when Sameera had gone to the University.
"So, how was Barbara's visit?" he asked blithely. "How do you know
her?" mother asked sternly. "She's my secretary" he said. "She works very
hard, and she'll do anything to help."
He turned and winked at me.
Oh, I got the plot now! By the time Sameera returned home that
evening, it was almost as if her joining the family was the elders' idea. "Don't
worry about anything", they said, "we'll talk with your parents."
On the wedding day a huge bouquet arrived from Barbara.
It said......
"Flight to India - $1500.
Indian kurta - $15.
Emetic to throw up - $1.
The look on your parents' faces - priceless" J
